Ms. Na-Piss...2025  I Spit On Your Grave

Here in the nakedness lays the spill bequeath of my cloak              
No smoke screen yes, the blood rise of its moat                  
The deliverance of your soul I spit on your grave                  
The blood of your destruction shall be paved                  
From the witch, the Mambo’s blood shall spill                  
Upon this day forward it shall be thy will                  
To asunder the Pagan’s moon, your fruits shall bear no more                  
To the cacodemon’s whore you must pay your dues, from my ancestral oath, fourscore                  
            
Close your eyes, claws shall pleasure you in the temple of doom                  
From the East, West, North, South, brimstone caresses shall be your gloom                  
Unto the bride you lay, sterile passion giveth from the loins of thy groom                  
You shall feel the wraith of pained love                  
The silence of blessings, black gloves in mourning, your funeral unto the eyes of your Dove                  
No relief of comfort shall rain on the weariness of your head, or promises to subside will ever come from above                      
The seal of Revelations unto your household has been broken            
Calls of redemptions, unto deafness it echoes of tierney, more suffering will be awoken              
At the speed of light, scarred truth, hearts mangled in head on collisions                
To the indistinct mind, the fragility of the heart              
Shall be separated by fiery divisions                  
            
I sacrifice your life for the fallen adversities down to the marrow of my bone              
To give unrest, without compassion wherever thy bitter tongue roams                
No rest in your journey, a chaotic dwelling now becomes your home                  
From the blood of the sacrificial lamb, I drink in your honor in the midnight hour                  
Darkness reign, light comes no more, sipped, and swallowed so shall it be done promised upon the fifth power                      
To the calling of my Haitian Loa, to my ancestral calabash rattle              
I spit on your grave and your waxen generations to come              
Unto the grave you wallow, or in your Urn, ashes-to-ashes dust-to-dust of your temple shall lay as one              
Your soul, your money, your bearing passage, your emotions, will be devoured, no amour for a mortal of Job’s earthly battle to continue on            
Tenebrous by the moon            
Devoid of passion saturated in the coldness of fiendish then gone too soon          
You see me so clear, no obscurities of me                  
I dance on your grave in the calling of the pythoness’ blue moon victory